Proximity
by chgirl
Summary: Sequel to In Transit. Can't get you out of my head.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own these characters, I'm just having fun -- they belong to Dick Wolf.

This is a sequel to my short piece_, In Transit_.

I like getting reviews if you feel so inspired…

**Proximity **

_One thing leads to another  
__Too late to run for cover  
She's much too close for comfort now… - Frank Sinatra_

----------------------

_Okay, this is now officially out of hand._

Here she was, staring longingly at a shirttail. A shirttail, presumably still attached to her partner's shirt, sticking out of her partner's closed locker. _Get a grip, Alex._

In the several weeks since their last plane trip, her brain had been racing around like a hamster on a wheel, alternating between memory of the time inside Bobby's personal space, and more pressingly, of how to get back there. That shared intimacy, which of course neither one acknowledged to the other, had (at least for Alex) ever so subtly, yet monumentally, rearranged their . . . thing. The ineffable thing that was their partnership.

It was probably in large part because they rarely, if ever, touched. Well, aside from Bobby ever so barely putting his hand on her back when he stepped aside to let her go first through a doorway or something, or brushing fingertips along a passed cup of coffee, which didn't really count. Well, to be more accurate, _hadn't_ counted before. But now, instead of being able to function normally, she couldn't get the sensation of Bobby out of her head – his scent, his warm breath, the sinewy feel of his arm. As a partner, she'd known not to let her mind go there, and for the most part she had always done just that. But now, this inadvertent little nap had left her wall of resolve in a shambles.

The shirt was just the latest symbol of what she wanted: Bobby.

In close proximity to her.

But as badly as she wanted things to change, she hadn't come up with any ideas so far – except for the ridiculous notion of opening his locker on the lame pretext of being helpful (_I'm putting the shirt back in, dontcha know…?_) and burying her nose in the fabric as she pushed the shirt inside. It would probably lead to one of those beyond-regrettable, sitcom-like scenarios of discovery of her fetish/stalker/seriously weird behavior, and that was unthinkable.

_Now there's a suggestion --- maybe I should ask Bobby if I could borrow one of his helpful reference books on sexual fetishism?! It would certainly open up a whole new avenue of discussion between us, especially when he finds out what I want it for. . ._ This type of unhelpful, wild thought had been jiggetting around in her brain for weeks. _Aaggh._

She tore her gaze away from the locker and strode away to the vending machines.

----------------------

Goren's active mind was usually occupied with the many details of the many cases that he and Eames were involved in – forensic findings, psychological profiles, bric-a-brac from crime scenes, useful yet arcane trivia. Or alternatively, his messed up family.

But lately…

Eames was taking up a bit more, well no, a _lot_ more real estate in that cluttered space. And a certain lack of focus on the tasks at hand had crept in -- he found his gaze locked onto her at inappropriate times….over an autopsied corpse, for example, with Rodgers staring at him in her affectionate (not) way. He found himself admiring her beautifully sculpted arms, in clear violation of his "do not look at your partner in anything other than a professional light" dictum.

He knew what was going on, of course. How that plane interlude had affected him. How comfortable he'd felt. How sensual it was.

He'd heard the siren song of _Life With Alex_.

So he had gone to get some time alone in the conference room (_get a grip, Goren_). And had succeeded in escaping into his notes and books and theories for the better part of the morning.

He got up and wandered toward the vending machines.

----------------------

There was some sort of loud commotion going on in the bullpen, and so it was relatively easy for him to get close to Eames, unnoticed.

And as she stood there concentrating on the machine and blissfully unaware, he put his mouth close to her ear and was able to revisit, for a few fleeting seconds, the sensory experience of being inside Alex's bubble – to feel a few strands of her hair on his face, to inhale her now-familiar fragrance. . .

Before he murmured, low and gravelly, "Skip the machines, let's get lunch."

And after she had adrenaline-jumped several feet to the side (and suppressed the momentary fight instinct to reach for her gun), she was also able to fleetingly revisit the tactile sensations of their flight experience. . .

She felt the soft cotton of his shirt, the muscles of his chest beneath her fingertips as she lunged for his tie, and breathed in his attractive, masculine and now-familiar scent as she brought his face down to hers and growled through her teeth in her best don't-mess-with-Eames voice, "DON'T DO THAT, BOBBY!"

And although it was an evanescent fix, a small scratch for a big itch –

That small amount of proximity would have to do.

For now.

*****


End file.
